I've Been Dreaming of a Future that Looks Like Our Past
by the.eye.does.not.SEE
Summary: Various vignettes about Jane and Oscar and their family.
1. Chapter 1

**Title** : _I've Been Dreaming of a Future that Looks Like Our Past_

 **A/N** : Some very, very random O/J future fic vignettes. Enjoy. :) Thanks to Broods for the title inspiration.

* * *

She keeps her hair cut short. He does not ask her to grow it out, though sometimes she thinks he wants to. When he runs a hand through her hair absentmindedly, it sometimes falls down to her neck too abruptly, as if he'd expected his fingers to be tangled up in her dark locks for longer. It reminds her of the way she sometimes walks down the stairs in the dark, thinking she is at the bottom, only to find herself tumbling through space before hitting solid ground.

She thinks he is like that, now. She can feel him falling, between the past and the present.

But he's adjusting.

And she's adjusting.

It is slow and sensitive work, but they are managing.

* * *

He slips every once in a while.

Sometimes he calls her by the wrong name. Or he wonders why she isn't laughing at some old joke the used to have. Or he looks at her, and stares, as if he doesn't recognize her.

Most of the time she lets these things slide. She knows he isn't perfect—neither is she—and she knows how hard it is, to start this life over from scratch, with nothing but a half-erased blueprint to work with, and conflicting memories to reconcile.

Other times, there has been enough sliding, and she asks him to explain himself.

Sometimes, he does so without her prompting. Apologizes, even.

Time passes, and the slips become less and less frequent. He does not stare at her in the mornings, or during the nights, thinking of an earlier time. When he is surprised or scared or happy, hers is the first name that comes to his lips. And, somehow, they find ways to make new jokes to laugh at, just the two of them.

* * *

She asks him one night if he thinks she should remove any of her tattoos. She says it casually, as she pretends to try to rub one off the back of her hand, but they both know what she is getting at; they both know which tattoo in particular she is offering to expunge from her body forever.

He doesn't say anything at first. She watches him, as he lies beside her, and as his face grows very tender. Finally, he shakes his head. He kisses her cheek. They each lie back and wait for sleep.

Later in the night, when she can't sleep and she asks him why he shook his head and brushed away her offer, he shrugs. He reaches out a hand to touch her neck, and he tries for a smile as he brushes his fingers lightly against the birds inked there. It is a sad look he ends up giving her, but it is a true one nonetheless.

"You wouldn't be you without them," he says simply.

The words are more beautiful than any _I love you_ he has ever, or could ever, say.

* * *

It takes her longer than he expected to find his second tattoo and to comment after it. She brushes her fingers against the three little black birds inked onto him, touching each very gently, as if the skin underneath were still sensitive, the ink still new.

She traces the first, the second, the third, and then finally looks up at him, her eyes wide with questions.

"We match," she says in wonder, reflexively lifting her other hand to touch the three birds inked onto her neck.

He nods in silence, not trusting himself to speak.

He thinks perhaps she senses this, for she does not say anything more. She does not ask. She simply presses a kiss to each bird inked onto him in slow succession, and then the tree tattooed on his inner arm, and then his lips. He waits, all night, for the question to surface. He waits the next morning, and for days afterward. But she graces him instead with patience, and trust.

In return, he promises her silently that he will explain. Out of all the mysteries between them, this is one of the few that truly still matters. It deserves its due, but at the right time.

* * *

They find a different ring, when the time comes again. He keeps his, what used to be theirs, on that chain around his neck. He does not offer to give it to her, and she does not ask to try it on. Some things are only his, she knows. Just as some things are only hers.

* * *

The wedding is a quiet, practical affair. After all the heartache and the confusion and the waiting, neither wants to waste any time over flower arrangements or white dresses or photographers. A civil ceremony is enough, more than enough, and when it is over and they head outside, it almost feels like too much.

The entire walk home, his left hand is continually curled in on itself, so he can keep his thumb on his ring. He rubs the side and top of it with his fingertip, and brushes the underside and far side with his thumbnail, as if he is blind, and is trying to gauge its shape on feel alone. As if he is addicted, and may not survive if he stops touching it.

His eyes dart between it and her as they walk, as if he expects one or the other to disappear. She holds on tight to his right hand, and smiles whenever he meets her eye. When they have to stop at a corner before crossing, she leans into him, and presses her cheek against his shoulder. Below the blare of the car horns in traffic and the ruckus of people on their cellphones and the endless construction all around, he hears her whisper, "I love you a lot."

A smile sprouts wide on his face, and he presses a firm kiss to her hair. And then to her forehead. And then he ducks down to kiss her properly on the mouth, so slow and long that they end up missing the light changing, and have to stand and wait again. She laughs aloud when she realizes and, for once, he does not try to mentally bottle the noise in order to save it for later. If he is lucky, and if he does his part, he may potentially spend the rest of his life listening to her laugh.

* * *

She already has her keys out when they reach their apartment building's front door, and so he lets her open it. He lets her go first, lets her lead the way up the two flights of stairs to their home. He lingers behind her as she moves forward to unlock it, one hand resting comfortably on the small of her back as usual. He waits for the lock to click open, waits for her to push the door open and then yank her key out, before making his move.

Before she can step into the apartment, he ducks down and hauls her up into his arms, cradling her to him with a laugh as she shouts in surprise. She clutches at his shoulders and back tightly as she loses her balance, and he grins at the surprised look on her face as he crosses the threshold of their home with her in his arms.

When she demands to know what the hell he's doing, he simply shrugs. "Tradition," he tells her, and kicks the door closed with a thud. His eyes are bright, happy. "Plus," he adds, a little sheepish, "I've always really wanted to do that."

She shakes her head. "You're an idiot," she says. But she's grinning, too.

* * *

When she's late, she tries to think nothing of it. This sort of thing happens, sometimes. Her period isn't always regular, and she's had small scares like this before. But when a one-week delay turns into two, and then into three, she knows this time is different, and that she has to tell him. They've been married for over a year and a half, and yet in all that time, they have only ever vaguely discussed kids. It is a topic is he oddly still mum about, and she has learned not to press him. She knows what his quiet means; she knows the pain that likely hides behind it. But there is no way to avoid the conversation any longer.

She waits until the afternoon, on a Sunday. She thinks it an auspicious time—or at least, she hopes so. It is spring, and the sun outside is bright but not hot. At this time of day, it illuminates the main room of their apartment, casting a wide glow of warmth and light around where he is currently lying on the couch, reading a book. He's got it balanced on his chest, one arm cupped around the spine to hold it in place, the other tucked behind his head, and she smiles as she approaches from behind him, watching him turn a page in studious concentration.

She walks over to the far side of the couch, and reaches down to pick up his legs so she can sit, before letting them back down to rest over her thighs. She rubs her hands absentmindedly over his bare shins, mentally working up the courage to speak, and the grace to say the right thing. She does not want to mess this up, not for him.

"So?" he says finally, minutes later, when she still hasn't spoken.

She glances over to find the book flat on his chest, and his eyes peering at her from the pillow of the couch's arm.

"You want to tell me what you're freaking out about over there?"

"I'm not freaking—"

All it takes is a raise of his eyebrows to silence her useless protest. She closes her eyes, blows out a breath, and clutches his legs tightly. Of course he senses her nervousness; he's always been able to. It's like his sixth sense. Or seventh. Or eighth.

"I have something to tell you," she says finally. She can hear him shift beside her, can sense him straightening up even though her eyes are still closed. When he draws his legs away from her, and sits upright by her side, she knows she has to open them, has to face him. Has to tell him.

* * *

She says, _I think I might be_ , but really what she means is, _I know I am_.

* * *

He stares and stares. She is scared he isn't breathing. She reaches for his hand, his chest, touches his neck. She feels a rush of relief when she feels his pulse. It is a little fast, but it is there.

The tears come so fast from him that she does not know what to say to them, does not know how to handle them. They pour from him, as if he had been holding them in for years and only just now found a way to let them all go.

He wraps his arms around her tight, crushing her shoulders to his, pressing their heads together. She finds herself smiling, and burrows her face into his neck. She runs her hands through his hair, across his back. He kisses her neck again and again, and then his head falls to her chest. Then her stomach. His hands slide down, following the small hills and valleys of her ribcage until they center on her lower back.

She whispers his name, again and again, but he does not reply. He does not look up. He keeps his face pressed close to her abdomen, and whispers soft words that she cannot hear. She gives him his time, and bends over to kiss his head, and hug him tight. She holds him too, and burrows her head into him. She presses her face into his hair and breathes him in, long and deep. As the minutes pass, she finds herself wondering if their baby will smell more like him, or more like her, when it is born.

* * *

When he finally manages to surface, he takes her hand, but he does not hold it in his. Instead, he guides it with his and presses it against the trio of birds tattooed onto his skin, and even before he starts talking, she thinks she understands. She knows why they match.

Nonetheless, she lets him speak.

He tells her about the baby, the lost one. The one that was sacrificed, along with everything else, from before. He begins in fits and starts, and then he hits some sort of rhythm, and it all comes out. He tells her everything—even things she's certain the earlier incarnation of her never got to hear. When the memories get too hard, but the words won't stop, she shifts until she's curled up in his lap, so that even if he can't have the two he misses most, he can still have her, and what will be theirs.

When he finally finishes speaking , and wipes his face roughly and hugs her hard, she only has one thing to say. She wraps her arms around his back and smooths the tension there gently, until he relaxes, until his breathing slows. Then she asks.

"Are you sure you want it?"

The careful question is hardly out of her mouth before his decisive reply hits her ears:

"I have never wanted anything more."

* * *

He worries.

Every time they have to go to the doctor, he worries. Every time she so much as grimaces and touches her abdomen, he worries.

He has nightmares about miscarriages and stillbirths and freak birth complications. He reads, endlessly, about horror stories and miracle births and everything in between.

When they go and see the doctor, he is the one that knows everything. He is the one that knows what week she is in, always. He is the one that knows if she's been sleeping regularly, and eating well, and taking all of her supplements. He is the one that asks questions at every appointment, and writes down the answers. He is the one that, when the doctor is at the door, jumps in to say, _Oh, one more thing before you go..._

She would be annoyed, if it were anyone else. She would feel suffocated, if she were ignorant of the point of origin of his concern.

But he is not anyone else and she knows the history now. So instead of feeling annoyed or suffocated or otherwise overwhelmed, she feels calm, and safe. She lets him take care of things, lets him worry for them both, and she is there for him when all the worries become too much. She is always there.

* * *

She watches him sometimes, when she wakes in the middle of the night for some reason or another, and she takes comfort in the way he sleeps. He is turned towards her, always, with an arm spread out to her growing abdomen.

When she had been thinner, they used to sleep curled up, arms and legs and elbows and knees tangled. Now, with her more than two-thirds of the way through the pregnancy, she is too big for them to be so close anymore. But always, there is his hand, spread out towards her. Always, there is his face, turned in her direction. Always, there is him, right within reach should she ever need him.

She lies still and watches him in the night, and tries to think of something to say that goes beyond the usual _I love you_ or the simple _Thank you_.

* * *

When the labor is finally over, she half-expects the doctor to hand her a newborn covered in tattoos. She actually braces herself for it. But when the screeching baby boy is placed gently in her arms, he is pale and pink-faced, and there is not a mark on him. She is crying before she knows what's happening—or perhaps she had already been crying; she can't remember much, now that the labor is over. She is crying and she is kissing her baby's face, and she is whispering that he is beautiful and perfect and tiny _, oh, so tiny_ , and—

"Hold him," she whispers to her husband, pushing their baby into his arms. "Hold your son."

He is shaking as he stands beside her, actually trembling from head to foot, and she leans back against the pillows with a smile. Out of all that they've been through...

She loves that this is what terrifies him now; she loves that they have both lived long enough for this.

"Go on," she whispers gently, scooting closer to him, and all but pressing their crying baby into his shaking arms. "Watch his head," she instructs, supporting it herself until he has calmed down enough to hold their baby properly.

Her face hurts from smiling so much, but she can't help it, her mouth splits in a happy grin again as she watches him cuddle their baby against his chest, and then lift him to his eyeline. "Hey there," he whispers, and his voice is so hoarse with joy it cracks, but it is still the best sound she has heard all day.

She rests back against the bed then, and watches as he adjusts their baby in his arms, learning the feel of him, learning how his tiny body can fit against his chest and over his shoulder and right into the crook of his arm. It takes a couple minutes, but soon enough, his touch is familiar enough that their baby stops crying, and simply gurgles quietly, looking up at his father.

When the tears start coming again, and he can't hold them in and their baby at the same time, he gently passes him back to her. He kisses her temple, and buries his face in the crown of her head, in the mess of her dark hair. She is sweating and exhausted and she hasn't had even a moment to clean off, but he holds her tight and breathes her in deep, as if she is the purest creature on earth.

He whispers something into her hair, but she can't hear it amidst the sudden crying of their baby, now parted from his father, and the chatter of the nurses, and the heady beat of her own heart. When he finally pulls away, and wipes his eyes, and bends down to watch her cuddle their crying son into a blissful silence, she asks him to repeat his words.

He says nothing for a minute, simply staring at their baby. Then he looks over at her.

"It's all been worth it," he whispers.

Not one atom of her exhausted, depleted body disagrees.


	2. To Hold

**A/N** : An addition to the first chapter. I usually hate naming characters, since it almost always ends up cheesy or ill-fitting, but I got a burst of inspiration for this one. Please enjoy!

* * *

Anthony.

He suggested it on the way home from the doctor's, where they had just gone in for their mid-trimester checkup. At four and a half months, they had been given the option of learning their baby's sex, and they had opted to do so. They discovered they were having a healthy baby boy. _Healthy_ —the word had rung in their ears more than _boy_.

"Healthy," he'd whispered, holding her. "Healthy," he'd breathed, kissing her.

When they had pulled apart—and remembered where they were—Jane had apologized.

But the technician had merely smiled. "This your first?" she guessed, her eyes kind.

They gave the half-truth. "Yes."

* * *

It had been his grandfather's name.

Anthony.

"He's who made me want to be a Marine, you know," Oscar said. They were a block from home, and she was busy getting her keys out, but she smiled at him. It had been a while since they'd last talked about his family, and he hadn't ever mentioned this story before. She noticed when he said the words that he stood a little straighter, and held his shoulders back a little further. She liked that; it reminded her of how tell he'd stood when they'd gotten married.

"Oh, yeah?" she asked. "Was he one, too? Do you Brentons have a dynasty going or something?"

He laughed a little, watching her push open the front door of their building. "Kind of, yeah. I was the only Marine, but my dad and my granddad served. Great-granddad, too." He bounded up the two flights of stairs to their apartment quickly, as usual, leaving her to make her way up slowly in his wake. He was waiting for her at the top, holding the door to their apartment open with a smile.

"You know I don't like it when you rub it in," she muttered, but even she couldn't manage a glare, not even a fake one. Not today. He noticed and grinned.

She passed by him and went into the kitchen, getting a glass of water.

"So," she said. "If he wasn't a Marine, what was he, your Anthony?"

He smiled at her word choice, loving already how she was making room for another, for _theirs_.

"Army?" she wondered, sitting down at the kitchen table with her water. "Navy? Air Force?"

"Army," he answered, taking a seat beside her. He saw a little flash of interest in her eye, a tug of a smile on her mouth. He liked that she noticed the commonality, and was pleased by it.

"Tell me," she encouraged, taking his hand. "What did he do in the Army? What'd he do that made you want to follow after him?"

"He was a doctor in the war," Oscar explained. "A medic." Something in his face changed at the word, but he looked away before she could determine what. "He was there at the camps, you know," he said slowly. His hand felt oddly loose in hers suddenly. "When they were liberated, he was there. He was one of the first..." Her husband shook his head. She saw something in his throat stick when he tried to swallow. "He was the one that had to say they couldn't be given bread," he whispered.

She watched him, going cold but not knowing why, as she waited for him to come back. Waited for him to explain. But he was silent as he stared into the past, and finally, she had to prod him for answers, and pull on his hand so he'd look at her.

"What camps?" she asked when their eyes met. "What war, what liberation?"

And then, with a frown: "What was that about bread?"

He stared at her for a very long time, not saying anything.

"Fuck," he whispered finally. His voice cracked.

* * *

"It's… hard to explain," he said.

"I think we're both rather well versed in the hard to explain," she replied.

He nodded. But he did not meet her eye. He drew in a breath, and said he'd try his best.

"I'm not a history teacher," he warned her.

* * *

She got the story of the last world war in first and starts, with a little cursing on his part and a fair amount of words she couldn't pronounce on hers and a lot of long stretches of silence. But she let him go. She held onto his hand and let him tell it as he needed to, as he could. It was hard at times, and sometimes his memory or his emotion failed him. Whenever he broke off, he was quick to tell her that he could get her books that would help make sense of it all, or that she could look it all up online for herself. But she shook her head.

"If this is who we're going to name our son after, I want to hear it from you," she said.

And like that, it was decided. He found a way to get the words out, and she listened, and they never discussed another name. Even before she went into labor, he was Anthony.

Afterward, he became something else.

* * *

The labor went as well as could be expected, but it did not happen on time. She was early, and he was undersized. Not enough to incite extreme panic—not enough for the NICU—but enough to require monitoring, and extra time in the hospital, and worry.

 _Anthony,_ they wrote on the birth certificate.

But they called him something else.

As they watched over him while he lay in his incubator, and ran the tips of their fingers over the glass, wishing they could touch him, another name came to mind. They peered down at his too-little body in its little protective cage, endlessly bumping their fingers against the glass like bothersome insects, and thought of another name.

 _Ant_ , they called him. _Our little ant._

The hospital stay, the incubator, the twenty-four-seven watch—it was just a precaution, they were told. "It's just to make sure everyone stays healthy," the doctors and nurses said, always with an encouraging smile. But they were terrified nonetheless. Or—Oscar was terrified, and Jane took her cue to be scared from him, because it was rare he was ever frightened. Besides, he knew more about these things than she did. And he had been there the last time.

The nurses were kind with them both, and patient. "You can hold him," they said, and they helped when both new parents were too scared to touch their baby. "Just like that. Close to your skin. He'll like your body heat, and your smell."

They did as instructed, very carefully, and took turns holding him.

Jane had been nervous to breastfeed him—with the tattoos, she was irrationally (or, rationally, she thought) frightened that the milk might be somehow contaminated by the ink. But it wasn't—they even had it tested just to be sure. So she breastfed him, and afterwards she passed him to his father. Oscar held him close, and sang to him very quietly, and rocked him to sleep before putting him back.

Sometimes their baby was utterly silent in his incubator while they sat beside him in the hospital, and sometimes the crying went on for hours.

Neither could decide which was better, or which worse. It hurt to hear him scream, but at least it meant he was alive and healthy enough to do so.

* * *

The first night they were allowed to bring him home, Oscar stayed up all night watching him. Both he and Jane had been too worried to leave him in his room alone—despite the doctor's comment that leaving the hospital meant being out of the darkest part of the woods—and so they kept a portable crib in the bedroom, and he sat vigil over it all night, watching his son breathe with the help of extra oxygen.

She slept for a while that first night, and woke only when her son needed feeding. Oscar sat on the edge of their bed and watched, rubbing an absentminded hand over the blankets that covered her ankle. When she was finished, she handed him back, and Oscar held him close for a few minutes before putting him back in the crib.

She watched him from her place in bed beneath the covers, watched the tiredness in his bent back, watched the circles under his eyes darken and expand. "You should sleep," she said, and he promised he would. "I want you to lay down," she told him, and he said in a minute. "You need your rest, too," she reminded him, and he nodded along as if he agreed.

Minutes passed, but he did not move. Hours passed, and she fell in and out of sleep, and still he sat, wide awake.

Finally, barely an hour before dawn, she shook herself awake, and got up to move to his side of the bed. She wrapped her arms around him from behind, and hugged him close, kissing the side of his head. She ducked her head into his neck and breathed him in deep, letting her chest expand into his back. He leaned into her, his eyes falling closed as he whispered her name.

"I can't have you both keeping me awake with worry," she told him. "I won't allow it, understand?"

"Understood." He nodded, wiped his face, and whispered hoarsely, "Sorry." She hugged him tight once again, whispering that it was all right. And then she pulled him back to bed, and kept an eye on him until he finally fell asleep, just minutes before the sun rose to brighten the city around them.

* * *

When they were certain their baby was healthy enough, and they'd met with the doctor enough times to assuage both their worries, they drove down to Virginia. It was Saturday, late morning, and as they walked through the grounds of Arlington National Cemetery, they saw a new addition being welcomed into the enormous green-and-white space. She stopped on her walk, and he did, too. From far away, they watched and paid silent respect as another man or woman was laid to rest with the hundreds of thousands of the country's patriots. Jane hugged their son to her chest, and pressed a kiss to his forehead, as her husband wrapped an arm around her waist. She found she felt more grateful here, in the midst of the endless sea of white tombstones, than she ever had anywhere else in the world. Grateful that they had served, and lived long enough to stop serving. Grateful that they could be a whole family, here together, and not shattered into pieces like so many others.

Once the coffin had been lowered, they each bowed their heads, and then took their leave, heading on their way again. It took a few minutes to complete the walk to the far rise and find the plot. Oscar walked briskly as usual, leading the way, and she walked behind, watching him, wondering how many times he had made this walk alone. It seemed so familiar to him, almost ingrained.

Finally, they arrived. The small white gravestone, identical to all the others, held a pervious incarnation of their son's name. _Anthony Brenton,_ it read, and listed his place and time and type of service. _World War II,_ it said, and knowing the extent of those few letters, Jane held her son closer, grateful once more.

"If you want time alone first," she started to say to her husband, but he shook his head, and held on fast to her hand.

"There's nothing in this world I could say to him that I wouldn't want you hearing."

She stayed, then, and leaned into him, because she felt he could use the support, use the reminder: Despite all the death, they were right here beside him, alive and well. Always would be.

He cleared his throat quietly before speaking, and then addressed the grave in front of them.

"So, um, I'm back," he began quietly. Out of the corner of her eye, Jane saw a smile tug at the edge of her husband's mouth. "I've got someone with me this time… Two someones, really. Hope you don't mind."

He glanced at Jane and she tried for a smile, waving awkwardly at the grave as if it were a real person. "Hi, I'm Jane," she said quietly. She shifted her son in her arms, turning him until he faced the grave. "And this is Anthony. We call him Ant sometimes, since he's so little. He's named after you," she added, raising her voice a little as if volume might help the dead to hear. She felt foolish once she'd finished, but the smile on her husband's face made it worth it.

"I told you about her before," he continued after a moment. "She's the one that scared the life out of me all those years ago. She's the one I somehow managed to convince to marry me." He laughed a little: "Twice. Wish you could meet her in person—hell of a lady, I think you'd say."

He smiled a little, and took a second to compose himself before glancing over to his wife. "I never knew my grandma," he explained quietly, "but that's how my granddad always referred to her: hell of a lady."

Jane smiled back, and squeezed his hand in hers. She let him talk for a while longer, updating the grave and the body beneath it on their life. Oscar talked about their marriage and their home and their jobs. But mostly he talked about Anthony, and that's what made her finally relax, and feel at home enough here in this field of graves enough to sit beside one. She and he talked about their son enough between the two of them, and with their friends, but it was different, hearing him talk about Anthony to someone he loved and missed so much.

She could feel the heart in him, could feel it beating hard and fast and steady, even though they were no longer touching. She could feel his devotion and his love and most of all his pride. She knew that was why he'd brought her, and their son, here: because he was proud.

* * *

When he ran out of words, it was late in the afternoon, and he looked tired like she hadn't seen him in weeks. His face was taut and his eyes were red and she could tell from the way he held himself that he had a crick in his neck, from standing straight at attention for so long. It had been a long time since he'd been a soldier.

"Want to go home?" he asked finally, sighing, as he let his posture slip a little.

 _Yes,_ she wanted to say, looking at how exhausted he appeared, but something made her hold her tongue. She was sitting on the grass to the left of his grandfather's grave, Anthony in her lap, as she had been for the past hour or so while he talked. She looked around at all the graves around them, at all the white, lonely tombstones, and the empty, meandering paths, and she did not want to go home. She did not want to leave the dead—at least not yet.

"Can we stay for a bit?" she asked quietly. She looked at the grave, at her son, at him. "You know, just to… give them time together?"

It was a silly reason, rationally. It didn't make sense. The man was dead, had been dead for years, and their child could hardly speak, let alone think. He did not know where he was any more than he knew his own name or the time of day.

But her husband dropped to the ground like her suggestion was the meaning of life. He came over to her, and took his place at her side, with their baby, beside his grandfather's grave. "We can stay as long as you want," he whispered. He placed one hand on the side of the grave, and kept the other wrapped around his wife and child. "As long as you want."

* * *

 **A/N** : Legit don't care how horribly they write O on the show, I love him, and I love imagining futures (and pasts!) for him and J. If you have thoughts on the story, feel free to lemme know! :)


	3. Our Own

_**A/N** : Brought to you by an adorable picture a friend set on tumblr, that immediately made me think of these two. (takethisnight - wrapitaroundme . tumblr post/145657967929/countryole-d-escolorindo-x) Enjoy!_

* * *

He has spent a very long time imagining this moment. He has spent hours of his days, and days of his life, imagining this moment. This stage in his life. He has had years and years to think up the ideal situation, to tweak every detail until it is flawless. He has been drunk and drugged and asleep and awake and sober, and every time, he has imagined this. And yet somehow, still, the reality is better than anything he could've dreamed up.

He stares down at his infant son in his arms, and for what must be the hundredth time since he was born, he feels tears gather in his eyes. He blinks them back forcefully—he does not want to sully this view—and looks closer. No matter how long he stares at the little that is his, he always finds something new, something different, that grabs his attention. With each day that passes, Anthony grows stronger and bigger, and changes. Every second of the day, he is changing. He is becoming more and more alive.

"Can I say something stupid?"

His voice is soft as it cuts through the midmorning lull, and when he finally lifts his eyes from his son, he finds his wife smiling up at him. She is lying on her side on the carpet, curled around him as he sits cross-legged with their baby in his lap.

"Something stupid?"

Her green eyes tease him, and he smiles back, and nods his head.

"Definitely stupid," he confirms. "And rather cliché, too."

"Oh, I like when you get cliché. Doesn't happen often." She reaches out for his hand, and threads their fingers together atop his crossed legs. "Have at it," she encourages with a grin.

He squeezes her fingers lightly between his, then looks down at their son. The sentiment swells in him again, more powerful than before, and he blinks forcefully again, to keep the tears at bay.

"He's perfect. Our baby, he's perfect."

It is stupid.

It is cliché.

It is basically a lie.

Their baby is not perfect, not by any stretch of the imagination, but he is alive, and he is with them, and that is all that matters. After weeks in the hospital following a premature birth, they are grateful simply for that small fact: he is alive, and he is theirs. He is small, and he does not eat nearly as much as he should, and he often has trouble breathing… But he is _alive_.

To them, _alive_ is perfect. _Alive_ is everything.

And so his wife smiles at the comment, smiles at how stupid and cliché and true it is, and then she nods in agreement.

"He is perfect," she whispers, her eyes on her son as he lies sleeping in his father's lap. His head is propped up on his father's left arm, elevated above the rest of his body, to make breathing naturally less of an ordeal. That one simple detail cuts through to her, cuts where she is still weak and scared and fearful for her child's life, and it soothes for moment. It reminds her that, if she is ever unable, her husband will care for and protect their child better than anyone else on earth. She slides closer to them across the rug, and leans forward until she can touch her lips to her son's forehead. "Perfect boy," she whispers. "Beautiful boy."

He stirs a little in his sleep at the touch, but stays slumbering. She smiles when his little nose twitches. He is moving more and more these days, since coming home from the extended hospital stay, and it seems each day he does something new. Her eyes drift from his face, down to his little arms—they are not as doughy as a newborn's should be, she realizes with a jolt of worry—and then onto his hands. Their baby has his tiny fist wrapped tight around his father's thumb, and she smiles at the sight, her worry clearing once more. He is not even half a year old, and yet already he knows who to reach for, who to follow after. She brushes her pinky against his little fist, watching him twitch in his sleep. She watches his face as he rests, and she finds comfort, as always, in his calmness. She closes her eyes and pretends the hoarse rasp of his breathing is the crash of waves on a beach, or a loud, continually shifting breeze, or—

When she feels a hand on her stomach, she opens her eyes, turning her head to look down. It is her husband, pushing aside the hem of her loose sweater to touch the skin underneath, searching by feel for what they both know is gone now. He cups his hand around her stomach hopefully nonetheless, as if the bump is still there. She squeezes his other hand in hers, catches his eye.

"Nothing left," she whispers with a tired smile. "Sorry to disappoint."

Even with their baby now, alive and in their arms, she knows he misses that, the feel of it inside her. They spent over six months waiting for the fetus in her body to become a real child they could hold, and yet now that they have him…

Her husband shakes his head. "You're not disappointing. You could never disappoint."

She smiles at the soft words, and frees her other hand to cover his, still resting on her stomach. She brushes her fingers gently over his, and then curls a little closer to him when she feels her fingertips pass over the smooth, soft gold of his wedding band. She moves nearer until her head bumps against his shin, and then she rests. She is bent entirely in an awkward angle—her body turning into two sides of a triangle, mirroring the bend in his crossed knee—but she does not move to remedy this. Instead, she sighs in contentment and settles in. She holds both her husband's hands, and presses a brief kiss to his shin. She looks into the sleeping eyes of their baby, and then she lets her own fall closed.

"I love you so much," she whispers.

Her husband doesn't ask which of them she means.

"We love you too," he whispers back.


	4. Oh, Where Have You Been?

She can still remember the first time she heard music play in their house after Anthony was born. It had been quiet for weeks after they brought him home from the hospital, so quiet that sometimes she wanted to yell, just so there'd be a sound in the house. _Your son is doing better_ , the doctors had said, and they had let him come home, but both she and Oscar knew he wasn't _well_. He was better than he had been the moment he'd been born—two months early, in the middle of the night, when not one person on earth had expected his arrival—but still, he was struggling.

The sounds of his ragged breathing followed her around the house, no matter if she held him in her arms or not, and she wished again and again that there was some way she could help him. Some way she could make him better. _You help him every day_ , Oscar assured her any time her confidence flagged. _You make him better every day_. She knew he was right—every time she fed Anthony was a small victory, another step towards getting him _well_ —but progress was so slow it was nearly invisible, and sometimes she got so discouraged, so certain that nothing she did made a difference, that she just broke down crying at the futility of it all. Sometimes she did it when her husband was there to hold her, other times she waited until he was gone. He was fragile too, she knew, and she didn't want to break him. Though he put on a brave face, she knew the loss of their baby in their former life stabbed him anew every time Anthony coughed or refused to feed or couldn't quite catch his breath.

So that day, when she heard the sound of soft drums, she did not let herself believe it. For a second, she thought… But no. No, the music was too faint, it had to be coming from somewhere else. A different apartment. It wasn't in their house. There hadn't been music in their house in months.

But then came the piano. The light cymbals. The trailing horn, which pulled the rest of the melody together, and spurred it on.

She recognized the song at once—it was from a Brubeck album—and she wiped her face quickly, before even a tear could fall. She could remember the last time she'd heard it: while sitting outside the NICU, listening to him hum this song to their baby. She drew in a shaky breath, wiping her face clear again, not wanting him to think for even a second that this was not the best moment of her life since they had gotten home from the hospital.

He looked up from his place on the couch with Anthony when he heard her footsteps in the hall.

"I heard music," she said by way of explanation, and when the tears sprung to her eyes again, she let them fall, and didn't lift a hand to stop them this time.

He tried for a smile; it didn't quite hold. "I figured it was time," he whispered.

"Past time," she whispered back.

She walked around to the couch then, and smiled through her tears when she saw him holding Anthony to his chest. She sat down beside them, on the next cushion, but when Oscar spread his legs and made room, she moved immediately into the space he offered and curled herself against his chest, too. For a few seconds, she stared at her little son, resting his head on his father's other shoulder, and he stared back. He hadn't yet mastered the art of smiling at will, but she liked to imagine the twitch of his little lips was in effort of showing happiness. She stroked his soft cheek with one finger, and whispered his name.

Then she turned her head to look up at her husband. "You're starting him a little early with the jazz, don't you think?" she teased, but she smiled despite herself, smiled in spite of everything, and he smiled back. It was amazing, how a piano and some drums and a couple saxophones could make her so happy, and bring so much relief to their worried and weary home. She had never cared much for jazz music—she still didn't, really; it was his thing—but there was something different about it now, since Anthony had come along. She didn't know if she could ever think of it again, let alone listen to it, without thinking of their son, those days in the NICU, and this day.

And that was fine with her, she decided, curling closer into her husband and resting a hand on their baby's back. So long as she had her son, and her husband, she didn't mind the hard, sad memories. Not if they were what brought her to this place, and kept her here with the people she loved.


	5. Twins

_**A/N** : I can't believe I haven't updated this story in so long (almost a full year)! I apologize to anyone who's been following it on FFN but hasn't seen the updates on tumblr. Here's the next little installment. Please enjoy! :)_

* * *

"You're _sure_?"

Though both parents ask the question at the same time, they say it in nowhere near the same way. The husband is ecstatic, almost yelling—quite literally jumping out of his seat—but the wife is quiet, her voice almost inaudible as she whispers the words, wide-eyed and terrified. She stares at the ultrasound technician as if the woman just told her there was a tornado bearing down on them, and they have no shelter in which to weather it. The husband looks like he just won the lottery six times over.

Accustomed to such varied reactions, the technician merely smiles at them both and confirms that, yes, she is sure.

"Telling the sex, of course, isn't one hundred percent reliable at this time, but you're definitely having twins. Look, you can see…"

The technician starts to turn to the screen, to point out the different shapes on the black-and-white monitor, but the husband has his arms around his wife now, and he is whispering something so quietly and fervently in her ear that the technician doesn't dare interrupt. Over his shoulder, though, she catches the wife's eye. She hopes to see a smile at this point—after all, it's usually the fathers that balk at the word "twins," not the mothers—but this one still looks like that tornado's still coming, and they're stuck right in its path.

The technician smiles in encouragement, mouthing, _You'll be fine._

To which the woman frantically shakes her head and mouths back, _No, I won't._

* * *

Somehow, they make it out of the doctor's office without Oscar telling _everyone_ about the twins, though not for lack of trying. He tells the receptionist that checks them out, and the person that holds the door for them at the entrance, and he even tells a woman they pass on the street outside, who is minding her own business.

"We're having _twins_!" he grins, nearly accosting her with his enthusiasm. He only stays in place because of Jane's firm hand wrapped around his. If she didn't have a hold on him, he might run into the street and start yelling it. He practically already is.

Once the woman gives them a bewildered congratulations, and walks on far enough that she turns a corner—of course not before glancing back in confusion—Jane smacks him hard in the arm.

"Hey! What was that for?" He protests at the hit, but he's still smiling. He hasn't stopped smiling since he heard the word "twins." She wonders if he'll ever stop.

"That was for you acting like an insane person. Stop talking to strangers. Stop telling them about the—about our—" Oh, God, even the word makes her queasy. She can't say it.

"About our…?"

He is grinning at her over the roof of the car, eyebrows raised expectantly, eyes bright. He is taunting her.

 _He is like a child_ , she thinks, staring at him at him in a mix of anger and disbelief so acute she doesn't even know what to say. His expression has not faltered since they left the exam room. His excitement is alive and well. It's like he heard the word "twins" and all that came to mind were a couple of mild-mannered identical little boys or girls, who will always be happy, always clean up their messes, always respect their parents, and won't cost a dime.

"Say it." He taps the top of the car impatiently. _Child_ , she thinks, closing her eyes. "Come on, say it. Tell me what to stop telling people about, Jane."

"Why bother?" she mutters, opening the car door and sliding inside, and then slamming it shut. "It's not like you'll listen."

* * *

And as expected, he does not listen. He tells the valet at their parking garage, and then the cashier at the grocery they stop at on the way home, and then Mrs. Waverly, who's a tenant in the apartment below theirs. She takes one look at Jane's stomach as she stands on the stoop, mutters, _Fan-tastic_ with as much sarcasm as a seventy-year-old woman can muster—which is a lot—and then she lights up a cigarette. Jane wants to tell her she feels the same way, that she's dreading the noise and the messes and the wake-up calls at all hours too, but then Oscar has the door open and is ushering her inside, muttering none too quietly about the blind selfishness of smokers.

He is still complaining about Mrs. Waverly's nicotine addiction when they reach their apartment on the second floor, and while usually Jane would tell him to shut up and move on, she prefers this subject to that of the twins.

 _Twins._ The thought makes her lightheaded, and she retreats to the bathroom to breathe, to think, to maybe vomit a little—the morning sickness is finicky this time around, too. She splashes water on her face, and then examines herself in the mirror. She turns to the side, studying the growing bump there. She doesn't think she looks any bigger than she did when she was carrying Anthony at this point in his pregnancy, but that was years ago now. She lifts her shirt up, smoothing a hand over the stretching tattoos. She wonders how much larger she will get before the due date. She wonders how much weight she can carry before she stops being able to function properly. She wonders how in the world they're ever going to be able to do this.

She shuts her eyes, forcing back the fearful tears she can feel threatening. Twins were not part of the plan. When they started talking, all those months ago, about and trying for this second baby, she had never even once even entertained the _possibility_ of twins. Boy or girl, that's all she thought of. All she dreamed of, imagined, and hoped for. All she'd wanted was a healthy baby, carried to term this time. Nothing else. Certainly nothing _more_.

She buries her face in her hands. _Twins_. _How is this possible_?

She jumps when there's a knock at the door, and before she can even draw a breath, there's Oscar's voice, saying he's about to head out and pick up Anthony from daycare, and asking if she wants to come.

"We can tell him together if you want," he adds excitedly, and the words are hardly out of his mouth by the time she's yanking open the door.

"Tell him together? Tell him _what_ together?"

For the first time today, the smile finally falls off his face. "Jane, come on." His mouth twists into a disapproving frown, and he slumps a little from his six-plus stature as he sighs. "He's our kid. He deserves to know."

"He deserves to know when we find the right way to tell him, Oscar. And we haven't done that yet."

"All right, um… How about this? 'Hey, Ant, you know how we talked about how you're going to be having a new brother or sister soon? Well, we found out today that you're actually getting _two_! Yay!' There, how's that?"

She stares at him for long minute, and he stares right back. He can see her thinking; behind those green eyes and pursed lips, he knows she's choosing her battles. Finally, as he hoped she would, she gives in to this one.

"Fine," she mutters, pushing past him and heading for the door. "Just keep the 'yay' to yourself, got it?"

* * *

Anthony is not at all upset when they break the news, simply curious and a little confused. He glances between his parents, clearly not sure whose side to take, as they stop on their walk home through Central Park to explain. His father is grinning, crouched down to his level and waiting expectantly for a response; his mother is standing beside him, smiling, though there is something off about the look on her face. Anthony makes his way to her, rubbing one of his little hands against the stiff fabric of her dark jeans.

"Mama."

Her smile turns genuine as she looks down at her son and bends down to pick him up. It's early enough in the pregnancy that her back isn't bothering her yet, but still, out of the corner of her eye, she catches Oscar rising with her, shadowing her movements, in case she might need help. She softens for a second at the sight of him, remembering how he took care of her during and after Ant's pregnancy. How he always looked out for her, always checked to see if there was anything she needed, or any way he could make things easier for her. In that flash of a moment, she thinks she could manage quadruplets, so long as he was by her side.

"I'm fine," she tells him now, quietly, before securing Anthony on her hip and looking down at him.

Anthony's little hands move immediately to her stomach, as they have been doing regularly ever since she and Oscar broke the news of a new sibling to him a month ago. When he pushes harder against her stomach, Jane pulls her shirt up a bit, knowing he wants to touch her bare skin, to pretend he can feel the baby—now babies—inside. He has been saying for the past two weeks that he can feel the baby, can hear it whispering to him, and she has humored him at every turn, because she knows they are lucky to have a firstborn who is not bitter about losing his only child status. She watches with a half-smile as his little hands trace the patterns inked across her abdomen.

"Why two?" he wonders, nuzzling his head against her chest. It is an old, inborn habit from nursing, and she smiles at the memories, momentarily closing her eyes as she leans into him too. It has been so long since he last breastfed—years, now—but she can still remember how it felt, to hold him so close, to feel him draw strength from her to survive. She remembers what it was like when her body alone sustained his.

"Mama, why two?" Anthony presses when she doesn't immediately answer. "Why two?"

"Oh, just because," Jane replies easily, pulling her shirt back down and shifting his weight in her arms with a soft sigh. He is heavy now; she keeps forgetting. He's getting too old, too big, for her to carry easily like she used to. She tries not to let the thought overwhelm her. _He is only four,_ she reminds herself. But even four feels old now, with these new babies on the way.

"'Cause why?" Anthony badgers. He presses his little fist against her side. "Mama, why?"

"'Cause we hit the jackpot, buddy," Oscar answers for her, deftly reaching forward to scoop him up and out of her hair, before setting the four-year-old on his shoulders. "That's why."

He catches a grateful flash of his wife's smile as he does so, and he grins back. He wants to lean over and kiss her—he saw the look on her face, the tranquility there, when she'd held their son close to her chest, and he knows that she's coming around to the reality of the twins, bit by bit. He wants to do so much more than kiss her for that. But Ant is on his shoulders, and he doesn't want to risk tipping the less-than-coordinated four-year-old to the ground. So he settles for reaching out quickly for her hand, and squeezing it once, before returning to holding Anthony.

"So," Oscar says, tipping his head back to catch the briefest glimpse of his son's little face above him as they continue on their way home. "You want to help us pick out names, Ant? Now we get to think up _two_ names, so you've got your work cut out for you."

As Anthony starts rattling off superhero names, Oscar grins at the stricken look on his wife's face and winks, as if to say, _Not a chance_. For the first time today, she breathes a sigh of relief, and settles into reality. At least her husband isn't _completely_ insane.

* * *

They spend the rest of the day busying themselves with playing with Anthony. Now that it is certain that they will not only be having a second child, but a third, too, they can feel their time alone with him winding down. They launch themselves wholeheartedly into any game he wants to play, and when he asks for macaroni and cheese for dinner, Jane doesn't quite have the heart to say no, no matter if he just had it on Tuesday.

He makes a mess while he eats, as usual, and after he's wiped off and put to bed, Jane and Oscar set about cleaning up the kitchen in quiet tandem. She does the dishes and he wipes down the table and the counter. She sweeps the floor, and he bends down to pick up the debris for her. She thinks briefly of reminding him that she's still capable of reaching down to touch the floor, but then she decides against it. She will take whatever perks she can get with this double pregnancy.

Oscar leaves for bed first, but Jane lingers a few minutes in the hall, checking on Anthony from his doorway. He is fast asleep already, and she loathes to wake him, so she simply watches over him in silence for a few minutes from afar. He looks so very little, again, when he sleeps, and she feels her heart tug downward in her chest, her hands immediately rising to her stomach. For the hundredth time, she prays these babies will be born healthy, and on time. She does not think that she—let alone Oscar—could take another scare like Ant's birth.

She whispers her love to the little boy sleeping in his miniature bed, and then makes her way down the hall to her own.

* * *

Oscar is already in bed when she comes in, but he looks up from the book he's reading to say hello. She smiles briefly at him, and then heads to her dresser to change. It's quiet in the room, and so she can hear when he closes the book and sets it aside on the bedside table. She doesn't turn and look, but she can feel him watching her as she undresses. She can feel his eyes traveling down the backs of her legs as she kicks off her jeans; she can feel his gaze roaming over the curve of her back as she removes her shirt, and unclips her bra.

"You're staring at me," she accuses as she stands naked, save for her underwear, and goes about putting her day clothes away in their various drawers.

"I am, yes."

His voice is so unabashedly self-satisfied that rolling her eyes to the ceiling is little more than a reflex. Though she still can't see him, she can picture him now: lying lazily back in bed, head propped up by his folded hands, watching her move naked about their bedroom as if he has not one other thing in the world to do.

"Like the view, I imagine?" she mutters, reaching into a drawer for pajama shorts and a tank top.

The words are meant to be scathing, but his reply is soft.

"Very much, but I'd rather see the front."

She closes her eyes, tank top half over her head. When she sighs, she knows he can hear it, and they both know he's won—at least for this moment. She tugs the tank top fully over her head and breasts, but leaves her stomach bare. As she turns, she watches a smile spread across his face. He doesn't spare a second looking at her face; he has eyes only for the small mound of her abdomen that is, for now, their entire future. Their two children, growing there inside of her.

He looks at her and all he can think is, _Miracle._

"Come here," he calls.

She does so, tugging her tank top down as she walks to her side of the bed. His eyes follow her stomach as if locked onto it, and the moment she's under the covers, he moves towards her. He is kissing her before she even has a chance to lie down, and when she pushes him away, he simply smiles, and moves closer.

"Oh, come on," he teases. His hands find her waist beneath the blankets, his lips her bare shoulder. "What're you afraid of? That we'll make triplets?" He laughs.

"Shut up," she mutters, pushing his hands off as she turns onto her side and puts her back to him. "I don't want to have sex with you right now. I already have one too many people inside me."

His sigh is heavy behind her. "Jane, it's not my fault we're having two babies instead of one. It isn't like I orchestrated this whole thing."

"Maybe not, but it is your fault you're enjoying it so much."

"Okay, would you rather I be unhappy and start throwing tantrums?"

She glares at him over her shoulder. "I am not throwing _tantrums_. I am being logical."

"Okay, tell me about your logic."

She squeezes her eyes shut, counting to five in her head before finally rolling over to face him. "Okay. You want to have a serious conversation about this? Are you sure you're ready for that?"

"Of course I am. But—for the record—I'd _really_ rather we were having sex instead."

"Great, I don't care," she replies. She takes a moment, organizing herself, before meeting his eyes.

"Have you thought about this at all?" she asks him. She surprises them both by how quiet her voice is, and it isn't until she finishes talking that she realizes why. She is scared, and she can't understand why he isn't scared with her. They were scared together with Ant. They were scared together when they first decided to be a family, just the two of them. They were scared together when they came forward to the FBI, all those years ago, and offered themselves up. Why is he not by her side in this? Why is he not terrified, too?

"Have you thought about it—I mean, _really_ thought about it, Oscar? Because this isn't going to be two cute little kids that look alike and dress alike and never cause problems. This is going to be two entire infants, two _more_ kids that we aren't prepared to support, and we need to acknowledge—"

"Hey." Oscar cuts in with a frown. "Who says we're not prepared to support them?"

"Who says—" Jane scoffs. "Oscar, look at our bank accounts. Look at our apartment! We can't fit three kids in here, let alone take care of them by ourselves. And think about how much it'll cost—you remember how fast we blew through money with Ant when he was an infant. Double that, on top of caring for him and ourselves, and how long are we going to be able to sustain this? Think about the food, the diapers, clothes, medical bills…" She closes her eyes as the bills pile up. "Oh, God, we're going to go bankrupt."

"Easy. Hey, come on." He touches her arm. "Don't get drastic."

"I'm not getting drastic!" She throws him off. "I'm being _pragmatic,_ there's a difference. There is no way we'll be able to handle these two kids, and Ant, and ourselves. We live in New York City, for God's sake; we couldn't have picked a more expensive place to raise a family. We're going to run out of money—"

"So we'll make more money," he interrupts. "We'll get better jobs."

She rolls her eyes. "You say that like a better job is something you can just go out and get, no problem."

"That's because it _is_ ," he replies, and she stares a moment, surprised by the intensity in his voice. "Look at me." He cups her cheek. "Jane, _look at me_.Do you think I would ever do anything less than whatever it takes to keep our family safe and happy and secure? Do you really think I would _ever_ let it get to the point where you have to worry about where our next meal is going to come from, or how we're going to make rent, or if we can take the kids to the doctor or not? Do you think I would let that happen?"

"Oscar…" She looks away. "That isn't what I was implying," she tries to whisper.

"I don't care what you were or weren't implying," he interrupts quietly. "I care about you being confident that we can do this. And if that is contingent on us having more money, then I'll find a higher-paying job. I'll find two jobs, three. Whatever it takes. And if it's about needing more help at home once you have to go back to work, then we'll get a nanny, or we'll beg Sarah or Patterson or anyone else who has free time. Hell—" He breaks off to laugh for a second. "—we can hire Tasha on her days off."

Despite her worry, Jane cracks a smile at that. "I'd rather stay home and lose my job than leave our kids alone with Tasha for any extended period of time."

"Aw, now you're just being mean. She's a good enough babysitter. She just gets distracted sometimes."

"By tequila. Tasha gets distracted by _tequila_ , Oscar. That does not make her a 'good enough' babysitter. That makes her a liability."

"All right, well, at least be grateful she's selfish with it and doesn't share with her charges."

Jane smiles, looking down. Her eyes gravitate to the space between them, where her stomach is just starting to grow. She watches as her husband's hand reaches out and pushes her tank top up, cupping the roundness there. She smiles when his other hand joins, as if he can't help himself, can't stop touching her. She stares down at his hands on her stomach, and she tries to let it be enough—tries to be confident enough in his love, his determination, his faith that they can make it. It isn't hard—he truly will do anything it takes for her, for their family—but at the end of the day, it will be her, not him, that will have the pull the weight in that delivery room.

"I only planned on one baby," she whispers, her eyes filling as she stares down at her stomach. "Only _one_. I never thought—I don't know if I can have two at once. Ant was hard enough on his own, and—and if it happens again, out of nowhere like that—"

"Hey." Oscar lifts his hands from her stomach to cup her cheeks. Gently, he brushes away the tears that are starting to fall. "Look at me. Jane, yes you can. You can do this. You can do anything."

"What if they're born early like him?" she whispers, her eyes wide and wet as more tears escape. "What are we gonna do? Oscar, what do we do if it happens again? They might not survive. There's two of them now; they could _die—_ "

"They're _not_ going to die," he cuts in fiercely. "No one's going to die. They're going to be okay." He tightens his grip on her, but even with his steady hands holding her, she still shakes. "Believe me, Jane. They're going to be—"

"I don't think I can do this," she chokes out. Her entire body is shaking now, and the tears are running unchecked. "I can't—I don't know how to do this. One child, that was fine. But _two_ —"

"You can." He strokes her face gently, wiping away any tear track he can reach. "Baby, you can. I know you can."

She shakes her head. "No, you don't," she whispers hoarsely. "You're just saying that. And before you start, I don't care what I've done before. I don't care about the things I've survived, or what Ant's birth was like. This is two babies, and—" She breaks off suddenly, and then dives forward into his arms, burying her head into his chest. He gathers her close, holding her to him and rubbing his hands gently over her back, and through her hair, as she shakes. He whispers softly to her as she cries, promising that things will be okay, that they will be able to do this, that _she_ will be able to do this. For a while, she says nothing at all, and merely cries against him, dampening his shirt.

Finally, minutes later, she finds her voice again.

"Why aren't you scared?" she asks in a whisper, once all the tears have exhausted her. "Why are you so positive all the time?"

"Oh, I'm scared."

She snorts, butting her head against him. "Please," she mutters. "Don't lie."

"It's true," he replies, pulling back. "Look at me. Jane, look at me." He waits until their eyes meet. He tries for a smile, but it hardly flickers on his lips. She notices that his eyes are red, too, and she reaches up a careful hand to touch his cheek. "I'm scared, too," he whispers. "I'm scared like hell."

"Are you sure about that?" she mutters, knowing she should be kind, but feeling more than a little bitter after today. "You haven't been acting scared. You've just been yelling about our 'good fortune' to everyone you meet today."

"That's because the good news is what I prefer to focus on," he replies softly. He manages a small smile when she glances over at him. "It's easier for me that way," he explains. "To just focus on the good things, to not waste time fearing what we can't control…" He looks down for a second. "I've already lost one child with you," he reminds her quietly. "And I might've lost a second, but I didn't. Ant survived against the odds, and if these kids are anything like him, I'm sure they'll do the same." He met her anxious gaze calmly and reached a hand out to stroke her hair. "Jane. I won't be mourning any babies of ours before their time, all right? I'd suggest you do the same. Try to be positive."

"And if we're wrong? If there's no reason to be positive?"

He smiles sadly. "Then I guess you get to say 'I told you so.'"

"I don't want to have to do that," she whispers, moving into his arms again. "That's the last thing I want to do."

"Me too," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her head. "Me too."

* * *

When they pass the seventh-month mark, there is an audible sigh of relief—not just from them, but from everyone around them. They had all been waiting, friends and family, hoping and praying that the twins would not come early like Ant had. And for now, they hadn't; they were sticking to schedule. Every day they spent in the womb would only make them stronger, and they were thankful for every one that passed.

Jane and Oscar celebrated going into the final two months by finally starting to buy baby clothes for the twins. They had been putting off on all shopping partly out of fear, and partly because they didn't know what to buy. For Anthony's birth, they had opted to know the sex in advance, and so they'd been prepared; for the twins, they chose to decline, and now they had to prepare themselves blindly.

When they begin shopping, Jane gravitates towards the gender neutral colors: reds, greens, oranges, and grays. When she has a few outfits she likes, she goes in search of her husband. After peering into a number of small nooks in the little shop, she finally finds him in an area clearly cordoned off for soon-to-be-parents of little girls. Everything is dyed in a bright shade of pink or yellow or purple. Everything has flowers or little animals stitched on, or _princess_ embroidered across the front.

She takes his arm and pulls him back into the main room.

"Gender neutral colors," she reminds him.

"Pink can be gender neutral," he replies, not letting go of his choices. "Don't judge, Jane."

"Don't get upset while they're not girls, Oscar," she warns him.

"Oh, they'll be girls," he smiles down at her stomach as if he has some sort of secret pact with it. "They'll definitely be girls. Don't you worry about that."

"I'm not worried about it, I'm worried about you," Jane mutters, but either he doesn't catch her pointed look or doesn't care, because he says nothing in reply and simply heads to the register.

"You better keep that receipt," she warns him once they're finished checking out. "We could be returning everything you bought in two months."

He waves a hand. "Please. Don't be so pessimistic. Even if they're not _both_ girls, one of them will be. Then she'll just have more clothes. Everybody wins."

There is no point is arguing; Jane can see it in his face. He is smiling just the same way he'd been when they first found out they'd be having twins, and his expression is so open and excited that today, she just doesn't have the heart to talk him into logic, or out of his good mood. Now that they're well into the third trimester, and past the dreaded seven month mark, she can feel that same unbridled happiness surging through her, too. Every check-up at the doctor has yielded nothing but normal results. If everything goes as it should, they'll be parents of two new, healthy children about sixty days from now.

She takes his hand as they head down the street to the next shop, and she squeezes it tight. She is starting to see his outlook, she thinks. A girl or two would be nice—really nice. She can picture him already, cradling their infant daughter to his chest, and she'd be lying if she said the image didn't make her heart pound harder with happiness, and even excitement.

* * *

The twins, as it turns out, do not come early at all. Nor do they come on time. Instead, they come five days late.

Jane and Oscar had spent so much time worrying about them arriving early that they'd never even contemplated the possibility of a late birth, and once it becomes a reality, they panic all over again. They speak with their doctor at length, but all she has to say is that it's perfectly normal to pass one's given due date, and that the date itself was just an estimate in the first place—often babies are born a week before or after their scheduled arrival time, sometimes even multiple weeks. It in no way foreshadows birth complications, she assures them. But still, they all keep a close eye.

She and Oscar try their best not to be worried, and they try very hard to stay off the internet, so as not to become frantic after reading over-term horror stories. Instead, they focus on setting up the little nursery that, because they don't have a third bedroom, will reside in the far corner of the living room. They hang a little homemade mobile that Ant had helped them decorate, and they fold and re-fold all the baby clothes, and they check again and again that the babies are still there, still kicking. They count the days and hours and minutes and seconds, and hope that each one that passes brings them closer to their new children.

* * *

The twins announce their entrance into the world as unexpectedly as they had their existence in that ultrasound exam room all those months ago. One minute, Jane is out of bed in the middle of the night, pacing to ward off some particularly nasty back pain, and the next, her water is breaking. She shakes awake her husband, and they grab their bag for the hospital, and their half-asleep son, and make their way downstairs as quickly as they can into a waiting taxi. It is just after 3 AM, and while they don't want to wake anyone up in the middle of the night, they know they'll need someone to watch over Ant. They're halfway to the hospital before Jane remembers it's Tuesday, so Tasha will be on duty tonight. She answers the phone at once, saying of course she can get someone to cover for her so she can watch Ant for however long they need. There's an eagerness in her voice that makes Jane smile despite the waves of pain—Tasha is always and forever hoping to one-up Patterson and be deemed the best aunt, and she will take any opportunity to prove herself to her nephew.

By the time they make it to the hospital, Tasha is already waiting there, and neither Oscar nor Jane bothers asking how many laws she broke speeding uptown. She hugs them both briefly, and then takes a sleepy Anthony off their hands while they check in and are led back to a private room. For hours and hours, Tasha sits outside with Anthony, watching over him as he sleeps in her lap, and then explaining to him when he wakes a few hours after dawn that he'll be spending the day here at the hospital with her, and that his parents are busy right now, but soon they'll be back, and he's going to have two new siblings.

He doesn't protest at the disruption of his normal routine, but he does ask for breakfast, and after checking briefly with Oscar and Jane—Tasha ducks out of that room as fast as she can, Jane's groans of pain following her—she leads their son down to the cafeteria. While they eat, Tasha entertains her nephew by coming up with the most outlandish names for the twins she can think of. When she makes him snort milk through his nose, she grins, and quietly designates herself best aunt. She almost grabs her phone to call Patterson, but then she remembers Patterson is Patterson, and if she knows they're at the hospital already, she'll come running. The last thing Jane needs on top of all the pain and the worry is Patterson's boundless excitement. She's already got her husband for that, after all.

So Tasha takes care of Anthony alone for the rest of the day, wandering around the hospital, getting lunch, and checking in periodically on Jane's delivery room. The hours tick by, and it isn't until Ant is sound asleep in an afternoon nap, and Tasha almost there herself, that she feels a tap on her shoulder. For a moment, she thinks about ignoring it. She'd really like to keep sleeping. She's been awake and anxious for a very long time.

But then she remembers why she's awake; she remembers why she's been anxious. Her eyes snap open, and she turns to find a nurse crouched by the couch she is currently lying on with Ant.

"The labor's finished now," the woman smiles. "The parents said they'd like to see you."

"It's over?" Tasha sits up at once, pulling Ant with her. "And they're—the babies are healthy?" she demands at once. "Jane's healthy? She's okay?"

The nurse smiles, offering a hand to help her up. "Everyone's fine." She points down the hall. "They're in 302."

* * *

"They're both boys? You're _sure_?"

Even as Oscar stares down at the little infant being deposited in his arms, he can't help but check a second time. The nurse does her best not to laugh as she passes the child along carefully.

"Sir, you can of course have a look and see for yourself, but I assure you, yes, they are both boys."

He glances at his wife, who is still laid up in bed, now cradling their second son in her arms. She is absorbed with his little face, his huge, wide-open green eyes. Oscar watches from a few feet away as she coos to the new baby, and dips her head down to touch her nose to his forehead.

She looks up with a smile as he comes over and sits down at the chair beside her bed. She catches his eye. "Two boys, huh? Is this the part where I get to say 'I told you so'? And also, 'Better find that purchase receipt'?"

He shakes his head, but even he can't help but smile at their children. Their healthy, alive children. "Don't rub it in," he mutters.

"Aw." She pretends to pout. "But I want to. Let me have this, huh?"

"Oh, you can have anything you want," her husband murmurs.

She smiles, and scoots over to the side of her bed so she can rest her head on his shoulder. She hums softly when he turns to press a kiss to her temple. She watches the little boy in her husband's arms twitch and fumble with his new arms and legs, and she feels tears fill her eyes again. She's been crying a lot recently, and so she doesn't bother holding the tears in, or wiping them away.

"I love you," she whispers, bending to kiss one twin, and then the other. "I love you." Then she leans further to the side, and presses a kiss to her husband's cheek. "I love you most of all," she whispers, leaning into him, and he closes his eyes, leaning into her as well.

"Love you too," he whispers back. He sucks in a breath, but he, too, does not bother trying to hide the tears that continue to fall. He looks down at the little boys in each of their arms, but before he can even try to articulate what he's feeling, or what they mean to him—what _she_ means to him—there's a knock on the door, and then Tasha's head is poking in, and before any of them can say a word, their firstborn is running across the room towards them, begging to see the babies.

Tasha smiles from the door, and offers to makes the calls, to let their friends know that the twins were delivered safely and that they can visit if they'd like. Oscar starts to say that's fine, but Jane shakes her head, setting down one baby boy as she reaches for her overgrown one, and pulls him up into bed with her.

"Just give us a little time together first?" she requests quietly from Tasha.

"Of course." Tasha nods at once, and tucks her phone away. She comes over to hug Jane quickly, and then Ant, and then Oscar. She coos briefly at the twins, but heads right to the door. If they want privacy, she'll give it to them, and she'll stand guard outside that door all day to make sure they retain it.

* * *

 _ **A/N** : Thank you for reading! Please leave review if you have any thoughts. :)_


	6. Julie

"I think we need to talk."

She says it with a smile, and one hand hidden behind her back as she steps into the kitchen after dinner, and he doesn't stop to think about what she might mean—he knows. That look on her face, he's seen it before. That hand casually tucked behind her side, she's done that before. It only ever means one thing.

She's already laughing when he sweeps her up in a hug, spinning her around despite her protests that she's too old for this, they're both too old for this. He shakes his head, burying his face into her neck as he hugs her. She can feel his breaths, coming in deep as they fill his chest and spreading out warmth as they fan out over his bird tattoo on her neck, and she hugs him back, whispering that she loves him, she loves him, she loves him.

He holds her for a silent minute, not removing his head from its place nestled into her neck. Finally when he does, and he looks up, she presents him with the little herald of the next layer of their future. The at-home pregnancy test is the same brand as all the other ones she's used and presented to him like this, but he takes it carefully in his hands as if it were holy, and one-of-a-kind. She watches as he brushes his fingers gently around the edges of the device, watches as he skims his thumb over the little digital _Pregnant_ reading. She watches him smile once more, like he can't quite believe it, and then he sets it on the counter behind her. She knows what he will do with it later: set it aside in a special place with the others, where all the mementos of their happiness together, big and small, reside.

When he straightens up again, she leans up to kiss him, full on the mouth and hungrier than she has in a while. He meets her kiss happily, one hand curling around the curve of her neck, the other moving from her waist to cup her not-quite-there stomach. It will be months before there will be something to hold there, but her hand falls to cover his on her stomach nonetheless, pulling him closer.

"Another," she whispers, breathless as their mouths break. She sounds a little in awe, a little disbelieving, and he grins. He kisses her mouth again, her neck.

"Another," he breathes against the bird there, and she sighs, closing her eyes and then opening them as he starts to move.

She knows what he's doing now just as intuitively as he knew what she'd been doing when she'd stepped into the room with that hand tucked behind her back. But she, like him, loves the ritual of letting it play out, and so she does not interrupt.

She stands tall, and watches as he sinks before her, falling to his knees at her feet. Large yet gentle hands rise over her hips to push her shirt up, and then his mouth is there, kissing at a patch of skin just beneath her belly button. She watches him for a moment, and then closes her eyes, listening to him whisper soft promises to their unborn, unformed, unnamed child. In the darkness behind her eyelids, she can focus more closely on his words, and the way he says them. The quiet but firm emphases. The gentility that accentuates, and to some degree masks, the fiercest of devotions.

She can remember him doing this with her years ago, kissing promises into her skin, in the time before children were involved. She can remember the morning they got married, and the afternoon that followed, which was spent almost exclusively in bed. In between their lovemaking, they laid together and whispered things back and forth, wishes and promises and hopes and jokes and secrets and everything else besides. They had said their legally binding vows hours earlier before a judge in City Hall—simple things, form recitations of _In sickness and in health_ and all that went with it—but that afternoon, they made up their own vows and had been their own witnesses.

One of them had gone like this: him bent before her, his head to her stomach, his mouth whispering that if she ever chose to have his children, he wold protect them and love them and care for them always. He would do whatever it took.

And he had.

He had sacrificed part of his sanity, much of his sleep, and too many of his shot nerves. He had let his heart be full and broken and made whole again in their quest to have a family. He had done so many things, had done every _last_ thing, and yet sometimes still, he looked up at her as he is looking up at her now: waiting for permission to extend his love further.

He never really got past that first lost child, and after having so many with him, she supposes she understands why. It is rare now, but sometimes the nightmares still surface: her firstborn, small and growing smaller, gone when she reaches for him, never to be hers. Thanks to the memory wipe, she can never quite know exactly what it is her husband went through before, but she does know how to chip away at the memories, to make them less potent. She knows how to heal the broken spaces.

She brushes a hand through his hair, murmuring his name to interrupt his whispered entreaties to their child. He glances up, not finished, but curious at the intrusion. Usually she likes to let this tradition play out in full. It is, after all, her favorite.

But she tugs him to his feet this time, and when he's standing, she hugs him once more. He reciprocates, sliding his arms around her back, and holding on tight to her upper shoulders. He bends his head close against hers. She leans into him a bit, whispering something softly about it being time to head to bed.

He smiles, his dark brown eyes bright as they roam over her face.

"Do I sense a pattern here?" he inquires, and she rolls her eyes. It is no secret between them that being pregnant spikes her libido—and his, too. He teases her only because he's grateful, and she allows it because she is, too.

She takes his hand, and tugs him through the kitchen and into the hallway. They linger a moment there, in the middle of the apartment, waiting for noise, but it's silent on all fronts: everyone is sleeping save for them. She turns to him with an eager, almost illicit smile, and before she can say a word, he's kissing her, and backing her not at all slowly towards their bedroom at the end of the hall. It's a miracle they don't bump into any of the pictures on the walls on the way there and knock them over. Or then again, she thinks as he hoists her up into his arms with one hand and reaches for the doorknob to their bedroom with the other, perhaps it isn't a miracle. With three children under the age of seven, it isn't exactly often that they get time alone together, let alone privacy. The few times they do, like now, they both take advantage. And in this particular department, he's always been one to go above and beyond to get the job done.

He's already laid her down in bed, tugged his shirt off, and is working on pulling hers off by the time she finds the voice and the will to press the pause button and hold him at bay a moment.

She's panting beneath him, and he grins, his breathing heavy too as he crouches above her. His face is separated from hers only by the fierce finger she has pointed right between his eyes.

"No making any more twins, got it?" she warns firmly, and he laughs, so loud and sudden that she has to slap a hand over his mouth and shush him so as not to wake any of the boys down the hall.

He grins behind her white-edged fingertips, his body shaking with laughter at her worry.

"I'm fairly certain they've slept through louder noises in the night," he mumbles against her palm. His eyes spark with mischief. "Aren't you?"


End file.
